Everything Artifice, Everything Rinsed
by mimarin
Summary: Gwen takes up a secretary position at Uther-Cooper in 1960s Manhattan. See Gwen go. See Gwen burn. A/N: Written in honor of Mad Men Season 3 premiere, but you don't have to know the show. Gwen/Morgana, Gwen/Arthur, Gwen/Lancelot, mention of Uther/Morgana


She showed up in the lobby wearing a fur capelet and the tightest purple sheath Gwen had ever seen on a woman in daylight. She was pretty and pale from a distance, and absolutely fearsome head-on.

"Hello Gwen," the woman said smoothly, extending a gloved hand. It was expensive-feeling suede, and because the chill hadn't quite left Gwen's fingers from the ten-block walk from the station, she gripped a little too long. Before she could will her throat to unseal itself, the woman pivoted on her heel and clicked to the elevator, and Gwen tottered after, already wishing she had worn the lucky yellow sweater.

In the elevator ride up, Gwen learned that her guide's name was Morgana LeFay, just Morgana. "I'm the office manager and I'll be helping you around today." Morgana crossed her arms and let the silence curl around her sentences. Even as her eyes locked on Gwen's face, she looked distant, like she was gazing inwards instead of out. "I hope you're a fast study."

"People call me steadfast all the time," Gwen said, twisting her purse handles. "Er. Not that it has anything to do with being fast, I mean. I'm quick at learning. Rather quick, people say. Once I get over the talking bit. Like I'm doing now."

"Well, there's being fast and there's being called fast, isn't there?" Balancing her scarlet purse in the crook of her arm, Morgana pulled her gloves off and tucked them in her handbag.

"I — suppose?" Gwen was grateful for the elevator being empty save the two of them, plus the red-uniformed attendant who was staring straight ahead and hopefully ignoring every part of the increasingly lopsided conversation. "I'm really looking forward to starting, Ms. Morgana."

Morgana held her hand in front of her face, examining the coloring of her fingernails. "You've already started." She smiled with teeth as the elevator doors slid open. "Let's see how far you get out the gate."

* * *

Uther-Cooper is nothing like Gwen had imagined. There are layers of frosted glass and rows and rows of frosted girls in tweed skirts and executives skittering about in cut-corner suits, all set to the shrilling of telephones and the tang of wet-paper promises. Gleaming, smoking men and women joined in one intricate dance, harried but united. Nervous delight bubbles in Gwen's veins. She's never felt this way in a group full of strangers, so awed and hopeful. She's never felt this way, even in church.

* * *

"Has anyone told you that your facial expressions are particularly amusing?" Morgana asked on the second day. Gwen froze at her typewriter, but not before her nostrils involuntarily twinged. It was beneath Morgana to giggle, but the whipcrack of her brows showed her delight. On account of lunch hour, the main floor was mostly deserted.

"What do you find amusing?" Gwen found herself at a height disadvantage, since Morgana was still standing, but to rise from her chair would have been a concession, as well. She forced herself to continue typing the memo on designated market areas and cut-ins.

Morgana leaned forward across the typewriter between them, pressing her hands to Gwen's. The younger girl felt her fingers crumple, mashing against the black keys. The memo would have to be retyped. "I saw your reaction when you met Mr. Penn," Morgana breathed. "You looked like it was Christmas, New Year's, and Jesus rolled in one."

Gwen gritted her teeth and lowered her eyes from Morgana's face to Morgana's breasts. At least _those_ wouldn't change expression. "Mr. Penn is—" _light eyes marble face broad body firm touch_ "my boss." A pause. "If you'll excuse me." She yanked her hands out from underneath Morgana's. Her office manager straightened herself, giving a sideways smile like she had just pushed Gwen in a muddy puddle.

"Of course, dear. It wouldn't work out anyway; 'Gwen Penn' sounds atrocious."

For the rest of the day, "Gwen Penn" ran in loops through Gwen's brain to her heart and fingers and typing. She ruined three drafts this way, and then she was so fixated on _not_ letting that ridiculous name seep into her copies that she made even more mistakes.

In his oak-and-shadow office, Mr. Penn didn't even take the effort to frown. "Redo this whole batch and have it ready on my desk 8 a.m. tomorrow."

"Of course, Mr. Penn. I'm sorry." She creaked the door shut after her.

At 5:15 p.m., when most of the steno pool girls were sailing out the door, Gwen knocked over her half-sipped coffee onto the front of her cotton skirt and lucky yellow sweater. She yelped and jumped up, swabbing first at the seat of her chair because she didn't want to ruin company property. There was a stripe of congealed brown across the stack of papers on her desk, the same stack that must be immaculate for her implacable, redoubtable, beautiful boss tomorrow. If she wants to keep her job, she will not be leaving the office for another hour. At least.

It was her second day, and Gwen refused to cry.

* * *

The next morning, she accosted Morgana in the break room.

"How do I, umm. Fix the expressions. On my face."

At the worn wooden counter, Morgana wiped off her lipstick with a pink napkin and bit into a squat apple. She wiped her mouth again, considering. "When you go home tonight, crack an egg and drain out the white part. Take the yolk, and put it into your mouth. Don't swallow. Relax your facial muscles so your cheeks don't bulge out. Stand in front of the mirror, and you'll see it."

"It?" Gwen blinked. The image is ludicrous, yet she was already thinking of whether her roommate has any eggs she can nick from the refrigerator.

"The solution." Morgana examined the bitten apple in her hand, then wrapped it with the smeared napkin and tossed the whole thing in the trash. At Gwen's appalled face, she shrugged. "The first bite is always the best. A girl's got to watch her figure."

* * *

After work, the junior executives insisted on taking her out for a drink. Usually, her protestations would win out over any individual supplicant, but it was a multi-flanked attack: Mr. Owain wheedled her, clasping a hand to her shoulder, proclaiming her maidenly presence would much improve this band of miscreants; Mr. Pellinore nodded vigorously; Mr. Mordred smirked and told her not to be a bore; Mr. Lance smiled gently in the background, as if she were already in; and Morgana, swaddled in mink for a theater date, lilted as she passed, "Gwen, it's your Wednesday night, not your virginity."

The last comment decided it.

They went to a bar where the lights felt silky and the booth seats were a venomous red. She ordered a Grasshopper and chatted with Mr. Pellinore about bird-watching until he glimpsed at his watch and realized he had to be at home in twenty for dinner.

"Don't feel like he blew you off," Across the table, Mr. Owain grinned over his martini. His teeth seemed too square, too large for his mouth. "Pellinore's a stand-up guy, less he's with his wife. Then he's more of a knee-walker."

Gwen quirked her lips obligingly and changed the subject: "Does Mr. Penn not join you on outings?"

"No," Mr. Mordred cut in. With his deep blue tie loosened and his shirt rolled up his forearms, he appeared even younger; the pale complexion and side-slicked schoolboy hair only assisted in the impression. "Arthur never takes drinks with us; sometimes he'll go out with Uther, but that's it." Gwen realized that he was honest-to-goodness _pouting_ and stifled a giggle.

They ordered a second round. Next to her, Mr. Lance lit a cigarette. "For reference, Uther's the grumpy one and Cooper is the crazy one," he winked at Gwen. "Although if you're given a first name like 'Gaius,' I suppose you have to turn out crazy."

For the first time that night, Gwen laughed. "That's unfair! People like you are the reason why I had to shorten my name."

Lance's eyebrows flickered up. "Let me guess: 'Gwenivitus.' 'Gweniferous Rex.' Or is it something even more awful?" His mouth was wide and generous like this, and Gwen thought that if he grew his hair out it would curl at the ends. Curl soft and rough at the same time.

"Like I'd tell you now!" Gwen exclaimed as she rose for the bathroom to check if she was blushing. At the sink, she wiped her face with a damp paper towel, pulled her hair tighter in her ponytail, and tried to smooth the wrinkles in her lime green blouse before deeming it a lost cause. She rounded the corner with a smile, preparing a quip.

She saw two girls in her booth. One sitting on Owain's lap. The other one coiled around Lance.

"Mordred had to leave," Owain said. "Married men, huh?"

The girl on Lance took her spot, so Gwen moved to the seat that Mordred vacated, next to Owain. The girl had glass-cutter cheekbones and a sharp blue cocktail dress that showed her shoulders. She appeared to be very entertaining.

The second Grasshopper was even more delicious than the first. Owain asked his girl if she had ever read _On the Road_. Lance kissed his girl's hand. Her cameo earrings flashed as she turned her head, left to right.

Gwen finished her drink and made her excuses. The boys barely inclined their heads as she left.

* * *

As she stepped out of the shower (didn't want to go to bed smelling like a bar), she remembered Morgana's advice about the egg and tiptoed to the kitchen. Still in her towel, she cracked the egg against the bathroom sink. The cold yolk felt oddly pleasurable against the flat of her tongue, supple saltiness she could just taste the edges of. She slowly closed her lips, a flush in her mirrored cheeks and wetness in her eyes, something expectant, perfect yolk bobbing at her tonsils, slippery and secret—

Gwen spewed gold streaks down her chest and bent over the sink gasping as soiled yellow ran molten down her throat.

* * *

The day she received her first paycheck was her first real conversation with her boss.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to celebrate," Mr. Penn said, pouring himself a glass of rye. He moved compactly through the room, no fussing gestures. The way sharks would walk if they had legs, Gwen wryly thought. His demeanor had greatly improved since the Arpege perfume campaign pulled through. Gwen had seen the colored proofs: a drawing of a woman in jewels, head tossed back, opera-gloved hands coyly covering her chest. Her whorled red hair the only dash of color in the image. The tagline, "Promise her anything, but give her ARPEGE." Mr. Penn's idea, of course.

"No sir, not tonight. I'm saving up for something."

"A dress, a new pair of shoes? Perfume?" He smiled with just one corner of his mouth, and suddenly Gwen saw why Mr. Arthur Penn, Creative Director of Uther-Cooper, was renowned for his legendary pitches. It was not about looks or even charisma; Mr. Lance, equally handsome, radiated charm through every pore, every second — she could admit this now, without rancor. Arthur Penn was compelling because he could turn that natural brilliance on and off. And when he was on, well, the recipient felt broken up and blissful. Salt dissolving in water.

"I'm actually — not fond of perfume," Gwen said. "I like to buy things that are, ah, solid. And it's not for myself, in any case. I'm getting a hat for my father. He's a mechanic, but. Every man should have a good hat."

Mr. Penn actually chuckled. "Sounds like ad copy to me."

"Oh, I didn't even think of it that way," Gwen stared at the front pleats of her skirt. "Men's hats are so… _dignified_, I guess. The fabric, the way the crown slopes against your hand... They're warm and fashionable, but most of all, they protect you from the rest of the world." She glanced up to see if he was laughing. He wasn't.

"Gwen, are you telling me you're in the habit of wearing men's hats?"

"No!" she reddened. "I just like the idea of them. And I want my father to have a decent hat, for once. My mother usually coaxed him into making himself presentable, but after she passed on, the job fell to me." Gwen hesitated. "And I'm not nearly as persuasive," she added, to lighten the mood.

"Right." Mr. Penn tapped his glass against the table. "Well, Gwen, don't let me stop you from getting lunch."

"Thank you, sir." Gwen tucked the file of proofs against her chest and turned, head glimmering with strange half-thoughts.

When she came back from lunch, on her desk was a Hudson's catalogue, opened to the hats section. Only one of the hats was circled. The product caption read, "Classic Borsalino fedora. Deep black extremely soft Belgian rabbit fur felt with 5" teardrop crown and pinch front. Satin lining, 2" brim, easily formed to your style."

In the margin was a note in block letters: "Pricey but long-lasting."

It took her three more paychecks to garner enough funds for the hat; it was worth it to see the expression on her father's face at Christmas.

* * *

Between cursing the copy machine and cutting her fingers on company stationery, Gwen learned to observe without looking. She learned that Mordred's waspish secretary Mary Collins had an immutable crush on shy Pellinore, that Lance wrote stories about lonely hunters and Owain wrote stories about cocoa-skinned bar beauties (his words, not hers). She learned that Mordred bled old money and familial resentment, and that Mr. Uther gazed upon Mr. Penn with bemused pride. She learned that Morgana had exactly seven cap-sleeved office dresses of equal tightness, and that there was nothing bemused in Mr. Uther's eyes when he gazed at Morgana.

All the above, however, did not prepare for this disaster.

She shouldn't have picked up the phone. Had she taken ten seconds to finish chewing her ham sandwich at her desk before lifting the phone, she would not have heard the breathy exhortation on Mr. Penn's line:

"Arthur, come fuck me."

Mr. Penn's tight growl: "Give me ten minutes."

As it was, Gwen barely had time to choke on her sandwich and drop the phone back on the receiver before Mr. Penn breezed out his office, past her desk, with the same air of cool determination he carried to every sales pitch.

And then, his wife and children arrived.

"Hello Mrs. Penn, I believe Mr. Penn is out—" _of your marriage bed_ — "out at the moment. Would you like to wait inside his office?"

Mrs. Sophia Penn clasped her hands loosely at her waist. "Yes, I'll wait. Arthur shouldn't be long; he knows that we're taking our New Year's portrait today." She turned to adjust the collars of the two somber, spit-shined blonde children behind her. Twins. Of course, twins had to be involved. Gwen willed her hands not to tremble as she opened Mr. Penn's door.

"Please take a seat. If you'll excuse me for a moment."

Gwen found Morgana alone in the copy room and launched herself at the other woman. "Oh God Morgana help me I don't know what to do I don't want to be a bad secretary I'm going to get fired aren't I."

Morgana calmly removed her arm from Gwen's grasp and stepped a foot back. "What did you do this time?"

"What—what did I do? I'm not the one darting off when I'm supposed to have a family picture and I would've reminded him but he left so quickly and now his wife is here and I can't reach him and it's all his fault and I'm going to get fired!"

The glee flitting across Morgana's face was not reassuring. "He's off with another woman, isn't he?"

"He — No!" Gwen folded her arms to her chest, as if to ward off the accusation.

"Gwen, you really are a terrible liar. Did you ever try the trick with the egg—"

"Yes I tried it and it was disgusting," Gwen snapped. "Just tell me what to do."

Morgana leaned her elbows against the copier, head tilted. If it were a piano she probably would have lain on top of it. "Answer my first question, and I'll help you."

"Oh, you — YES, okay?" Gwen hissed, wringing air. "Yes he's with another woman I heard them on the phone, and I just — please, Morgana."

"Very well. Put on your best hostess smile and tell his wife you don't know where he is, which is true. Let him come in, with his own excuse. Apologize and say that you should've reminded him earlier about the appointment. And Gwen, in the future, don't compromise your employer for information you could have thought of in five minutes if you just shut your mouth and concentrated."

"Yes Morgana thank you Morgana" a chastened Gwen murmured as she whipped out the door.

The advice worked brilliantly. Although Mrs. Penn clearly was wondering about her husband, she chatted to Gwen with automated politeness. Unlike her husband, she was a fidgeter. Once relaxed, or at least not in immediate danger of explosion, Gwen found that she disliked Sophia Penn's features, which were objectively delicate in separate, but when combined gave her round white face a simpering, ratlike characteristic. Or maybe it was the high-pitched, pinched voice, like she was straining words through a cheese cloth… Gwen mentally slapped herself: the woman's husband was cheating on her, for goodness' sake!

Finally, Mr. Penn walked in, and if Gwen averted her eyes when he kissed his wife, no-one noticed. She dutifully apologized for her carelessness and slunk back to her desk, relief flooding her lungs. Mr. Penn got to keep his marriage, Gwen got to keep her job.

And Gwen got to keep the secret that the breathy voice she heard on the phone wasn't female.


End file.
